


Opposites Attract

by horselizard



Series: Unparalleled/Opposites Attract [2]
Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Gender Roles, Het, Humiliation, Humor, Malesub, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, Self-cest, Slurs, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horselizard/pseuds/horselizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against all expectations, Arlene and Arnold discover they have something in common which makes them sexually compatible: they both get off on seeing Arnold humiliated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opposites Attract

**Author's Note:**

> The action follows directly on from the end of "Unparalleled" (though it can be read as standalone).
> 
> Many thanks to Saylee for beta-ing the _really_ explicit part, giving excellent suggestions and reassuring me that I hadn't written in any anatomical impossibilities. Any remaining badficcery is solely my own.
> 
> Content note for gendered slurs and sexism (although it's with a twist). Dub-con tag is because the Rimmers go into all this without a safeword - silly things! Fortunately it all turns out fine, but don't try this at home, kids...

Rimmer had never had the courage to imagine coming out as submissive, but if he had, it most certainly would not have been like this. Not standing barefoot in his pyjamas in a bunkroom in a parallel universe, with his tipsy female opposite’s hand anchored threateningly in his hair, a smirk playing on her lips as she sized up this new possibility for exercising her... _dominant_ inclinations.

It was all moving much too fast. His head was spinning as he tried to process what was happening to him... as he wondered whether he even dared contemplate what might be _about_ to happen to him. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t register Arlene’s next words.

“Oi! Squiress!” she exclaimed, startling him back to full attention with an abrupt tug on his curls. “I _said_ , what do you say?”

Rimmer struggled to work out what she meant. What had they been discussing? Something about... Oh, smeg. About owing her an apology. And about deserving a punishment...

“I’m sorry – ma’am,” he quavered, and her eyes flashed.

“Too slow,” she announced triumphantly, pulling at his hair so hard that he screamed and sank to his knees. She twisted her fingers tighter into his hair, and he writhed and yelped beneath her hand, his face screwed up in an agonized grimace.

“I _am_ sorry, honestly, ma’am, I really am sorry!” he gabbled desperately. “Let me make it up to you, ma’am – I’ll do anything, I promise – anything at all...”

“Hm,” Arlene sneered, loosening her grasp a little as she considered this. Rimmer held a breath he hadn’t needed to take, looking up at her pleadingly, bracing himself for another searing burst of pain. “We’ll see about that, milassie. But you’re definitely going to be sorry by the time I’ve finished with you.”

She released him, and he collapsed forward onto his hands, gasping with relief. He felt pathetic. Barely a minute had elapsed since he had agreed (well, sort of agreed) to... whatever this was, and already she had reduced him to practically prostrating himself before her, squealing like a – well, _not_ like a girl, he supposed – at the briefest bit of rough handling. 

Shame burned within him, warming his cheeks and also some other, less traditional places. Maybe her universe had it right – maybe men really _were_ secretly weak and hopeless, even taking into account their physical advantages. Or maybe it was just him. That, he concluded, was much more likely. Yes, indeed – he was such a worthless coward that even a slight little lady who stood a full head shorter than him could effortlessly physically humiliate him. And surely, if that was the case, he fully deserved everything he was about to get.

“So,” she said, bending forward so she could more effectively loom over him, “you like being tied up, do you?”

Her tie swung gently back and forth in front of his eyes, in an effect more mesmeric than either of the Rimmers was able to produce through ocular talent alone. “Yes’m,” he mumbled, failing to meet her eye.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” she said, springing upright again and beginning to pace around him. “Speak up, my little cupcake.”

Rimmer cleared his throat nervously. “Yes, ma’am,” he enunciated, feeling his blush deepening.

“Not good enough,” she replied imperiously, cupping his chin, and forcing him suddenly back up into a kneeling position. “I want you to _say_ it, you perverted little hussy.”

Rimmer stared up at her triumphant sneer, and his stomach somersaulted. God, he wanted this. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, except possibly for the ground to open up and swallow him, which he also quite wanted just at that moment. “I... I like being... tied up,” he managed, his expression one of utter mortification.

“Of course you do, you little freak,” she murmured, surveying him critically. “Well then, let’s find out exactly _how much_ you like it.”

Rimmer watched, transfixed, as her hands went to her ship-issue tie, and she slowly started to undo the knot. She lifted it with deliberation from around her neck, then played with it carelessly, letting it slip between her fingers. The long, thin strip of light flickered slightly when it broke contact with her projection, but when she grabbed it in both hands and pulled it taut, it appeared as solid as anyone would ever need it to be.

She crouched down, looped it round behind his neck, and tugged on it sharply, pulling him nose-to-nose with her. “Ask for it,” she hissed.

 _Ask for it?_ Rimmer balked at the idea of debasing himself like that. The thing about being tied up, the nice, _appealing_ thing about it, was that once you were tied up, it was easy to pretend that whatever happened to you next, whatever uncomfortable, painful, degrading things happened to you next, it was all the fault of the one inflicting them on you. After all, it wasn’t as though you’d... _asked_ for it...

His face fell. She was right. This really was a role for cowards, degenerates and unimaginative losers, wasn’t it? Sod doing the gentlemanly thing and taking any kind of responsibility or initiative in proceedings; he just wanted to be carried along passively, like the useless, work-shy idiot that he was. He felt disgusted at himself. God, yes, he deserved to be punished. And if part of his punishment was having to humiliate himself by asking outright to be punished in the humiliating way he deserved... well, then... so be it. Probably.

“Please, ma’am,” he began, gathering his courage, “please tie me up...” 

“ _Much_ better,” she smirked, whipping the tie out from round his neck so quickly that he had to struggle to keep his balance. She stood upright again, still toying idly with the length of hologrammatic material, and strode round behind him. Rimmer’s simulated pulse quickened as she disappeared from his line of sight. He knew exactly what was coming to him, but she was really taking her time over it, and the anticipation was agonizing.

Suddenly she was up close behind him, leaning over his shoulder, and her voice in his ear made him jump for the second time that night. “Such a polite little thing,” she purred. “You deserve to get what you want.”

Rimmer swallowed and shut his eyes as she grabbed each of his wrists in turn, pulling them roughly behind his back. He could still resist. He could still fight back, assert himself. And with every passing second, it was becoming more obvious that he wasn’t going to. A sense of immense relief flooded him as she finally started to wrap the tie round and round his crossed wrists, knotting it so tightly that he had no hope of escape. The situation was out of his hands now. And yes, he had asked for this... but he could at least _pretend_ , at least to _himself_ , that he had changed his mind...

“I hope that _is_ what you want,” Arlene murmured in his ear, trailing a hand languorouslydown his side from waist to thigh, “because you’re going to have quite a job getting out of _that_ one.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know, ma’am, thank you, ma’am,” Rimmer found himself blurting out. His libido had apparently wrestled his pride for control of his vocal cords, and won. Who was he kidding? He was absolutely one hundred per cent complicit in this little game of Arlene’s, and he was playing to lose. Just the _thought_ of what she might do to him was beginning to make him hard.

“And now that you’re stuck like that,” she continued, bringing both hands up to rest on his hips, “you’re so very _vulnerable_.”

Whatever sycophantic babbling Rimmer was about to let slip next, it froze in his throat, as she took a firm grip on his pyjama bottoms and pulled them in one swift movement down to his knees. He was paralysed with shock. For only the second time in his existence, his naked backside was now exposed to the unforgiving scrutiny of a female woman... and she would only need to take a few short steps before she could see the rest of him, too. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that he could do about it. It was such a simple and easily reversible action that she had performed, but with his hands tightly bound behind his back, he had no way of covering his dignity, much less any chance of pulling his trousers back up.

He could swear he heard a soft chuckle from behind him, and he felt his cheeks flush crimson as he awaited the inevitable frontal ridicule. He desperately hoped his arousal wasn’t obvious. He _thought_ he had it under control, but he didn’t dare to check.

Arlene strutted back into view, and her vulture smile broadened as she shamelessly ogled his genital region. “Well, squiress,” she smirked, “looks like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Rimmer’s gaze shot immediately down to the offending body part, and his blush deepened at what he saw. There was no lying to himself – to _either_ of his selves – now; this mortifying predicament was turning him on. And, to his horror, he realised that the longer he dwelt on this embarrassing truth, the stiffer he was getting. He groaned softly, eyes darting nervously around the sleeping quarters, not knowing where to look.

And that was when he realised that after entering the room, Arlene had not bothered to shut the door.

The simulated blood immediately drained from his face, though regrettably not from anywhere else. “Miss, er, Miss... Rimmer, ma’am?” he stuttered, his uncertainty over addressing her by name compounded by his sheer blind panic.

“What is it, petal?” she replied, obviously revelling in his discomfiture.

“The... the... the _door_ , ma’am,” he blurted out, incapable of anything more coherent.

“Oh, you want me to lock it, do you?” she sneered, arching an eyebrow. “Worried someone might see you, kneeling there half-naked and helpless? You’re very precious all of a sudden, for someone who gets a kick out of being trussed up and humiliated.”

“But... but... that’s different,” he mumbled weakly, feeling himself wither (sadly only metaphorically) under her contemptuous gaze.

“Listen here, lassie,” she snarled, shoving her face close to his, “I make the rules around here. And if I say it’s no different, it’s no different. You’re a pathetic little worm and you’ve forfeited your right to any morsel of dignity. In the highly unlikely event that anyone _does_ stumble across us up here, all they're going to see is the truth: you’re a filthy, twisted, loathsome little sexual deviant, who lost all sense of self-respect years ago.”

“Yes, ma’am, you’re absolutely right, ma’am,” Rimmer nodded vigorously, feeling his insides churning under the onslaught of abuse. The idea of anyone else on the ship observing him in such a state gave him a horrible, dreadful thrill... and the second he realised this, he felt even more deeply ashamed of himself. Oh God, would he stop at nothing to get his perverted kicks?

“Of course I’m right,” she spat. “I know you, Rimmer. I know all those little insecurities you try so hard to hide. I know you’re weak-willed, spineless, neurotic, repressed. And then, maladjusted little screw-up that you are, what do you go and do? You turn it all into a sexual fetish. God, you make me sick.”

It was all painfully, shamefully true, and good lord, the woman was really pressing his buttons. But at the same time, he was starting to get slightly scared. Her eyes were wild, her nostrils were beginning to flare (as he took some small comfort from smugly noting, after her hypocritical comments about his own nasal capaciousness), and he remembered that she was still rather drunk. His eyes flicked again to the open door, and then it hit him. If one of his shipmates saw him like this, he would never live it down. But for Arlene, it was exactly the same. Even though she was in a much less outwardly embarrassing position than him, in _her_ shipmates’ eyes, _she_ would be the one whose behaviour appeared unnatural, unhealthy... _unwomanly_. And if she was feeling self-destructive and self-loathing enough to risk _that_ blow to her reputation, who knew what she might be capable of doing to _him_?

“You’re a disgrace, aren’t you, Rimmer?” she hissed.

Oh, smeg. Perhaps, a little voice chimed, he should have thought about what happened the _last_ time there were two of him before letting her tie him up.

He tugged at his bonds, just a little, just hoping for some reassurance that he might be able to make a hasty exit if necessary. No chance. His heart sank. And, what was more, he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d hoped. “Having second thoughts, are we, poppet?” Arlene scoffed. “Well, it’s too late now. You’re completely at my mercy.”

Rimmer gulped. Even though all this no longer seemed like quite such an A1-wonderful idea, her mocking words still sent a delicious chill through him. That self-righteous little voice could go hang; yes, perhaps he should have known what he was letting himself in for, but whatever she was about to throw at him, he was more than ready to take it.

“And I _will_ be merciful, don’t you worry,” she smiled slyly, “but not until you’ve been suitably punished.”

In a flash, she grabbed his ear and started pulling on it, hard. He shrieked in pain and struggled to his feet, desperately trying to relieve the agony, and she dragged him across the room, his pyjama bottoms dropping to his ankles and causing him to stumble awkwardly. They reached a hard metal chair and she sat down on it, pulling him over so that he collapsed heavily across her lap. His genitals were almost crushed against her leg as he landed, and he winced. He wriggled impotently, trying to get himself into a less hideously uncomfortable position, but all he managed to do was rub his erection against her thigh. Realising this, he froze, his cheeks once again growing scarlet.

“Good Lord, and you’re a frotteuse to boot,” Arlene muttered in disgust. “At least I’m not _that_ bad.”

“No, ma’am, I wasn’t... I’m not...” Rimmer spluttered, mortified, but any chances he still had of expressing himself coherently were rapidly being undermined by his growing realisation of what she had in store for him. He was tied up, helpless, sprawled face-down across her lap; his trousers were round his ankles and his exposed backside lay invitingly before her. There was no way, no _way_ , that he could fail to see what was coming...

“Now then, you worthless little creature,” she said breezily, grabbing his hair again and pulling his head up so that she could look him in the face, “tell me what you deserve.”

“I deserve to be punished, ma’am,” he replied unhesitatingly, his voice coming out slightly strangled, but he didn’t care. He had dreamed of this, god, how he’d dreamed of it. Shameful, secretive little dreams that always left him feeling obscenely gratified. To be overpowered by a woman, to be got the better of and pushed around and belittled until she had him over her knee... he could think of nothing more emasculating. Nothing he deserved more. He was a useless piece of human wreckage who fantasised about his own complete humiliation at the hands of a woman, a member of the weaker sex, one of his natural inferiors - and now it was about to happen, because yes, he was pathetic, so pathetic that he couldn’t even defend himself against a girl.

“You certainly do, you little git,” she snorted. “And what you deserve is exactly what you’re going to get.”

Abruptly, she removed her hand from his hair, letting his head drop back down again, and he braced himself, whatever served to simulate his adrenaline going into sickening overdrive as he waited for the impact of projection against projection. Even though he knew it was coming, it was still a nasty shock when the flat of her palm smacked against his bare buttocks. And after the anticipation, and the shock, came the pain, the slow tingling of simulated nerve endings rudely awakened... and, worse, the feeling of utter impotence which pooled in his gut, the sense of disgust at himself for getting helplessly subjected to such an infantilising indignity.

Just as the sting of the first smack was subsiding, she brought her open hand down on his backside again, harder, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from letting out a risible little yelp. “You like having your bottom spanked, don’t you?” Arlene goaded gleefully.

“Yes, ma’am, I do, ma’am,” Rimmer babbled, his voice high and tight. “Please spank me harder, ma’am, I want to be properly punished!”

“And so you will be,” she replied, giving his buttocks such a ringing slap that this time he really did scream. He had never had much in the way of padding down there, and with every smack it was getting more and more tender.

“Getting too much for you, is it? Well, tough. This is what you get for being a filthy little pervert.”

Another slap from Arlene, another howl from Rimmer.

“Why couldn’t you just be normal, like the other girls, eh?”

Rimmer, perturbed, opened his mouth to speak, but then Arlene’s open palm landed just exactly where she had dealt him the previous smack, and all that came out was an agonized moan.

“But no, you’re so neurotic that you can’t bear to let a boy take control, not for one second...”

Her hand smacked against his bottom again, so carried away by now that he was convinced this one would leave a bruise. He had never been so simultaneously terrified and turned on.

“So cowardly that you fantasise about beating and humiliating them, even when you know they’re mentally delicate...”

The next slap brought tears to Rimmer’s eyes, even as he tried desperately to choke down his pained squeals.

“So insecure that you worry about them being bigger and stronger than you, even though physical size is such a meaningless, unimportant attribute...”

“Miss Rimmer – aargh! – ma’am!” Rimmer finally managed, and Arlene paused, her fingers resting splayed across his sore, stinging buttocks. “With respect, ma’am,” he gasped, twisting his head up as best he could to look at her, “those accusations aren’t really fair...”

She raised an eyebrow contemptuously. “Of course they’re fair! I do all of those things, and you’re me, so you ought to be punished for them.” She underlined her remark with another swift slap to his backside, provoking a stifled yelp. “Besides, you’re enjoying it, aren’t you? Come on, admit it. You can’t lie to me, not when you’ve got your stiffie hanging out like some wanton little tart.”

“Good point, ma’am,” he croaked, letting his head hang again as he resigned himself to his painful fate. But she grabbed his ear and yanked him back up to meet her eye.

“In fact, I think you’re enjoying this a little _too_ much. And we can’t be having that, now, can we?”

The tugging on his ear was joined by an arm snaking round under his neck, forcing him violently upwards. Choking in alarm, he somehow managed to get some purchase on the bunkroom floor and struggle upright. Arlene rose with him, observing his frightened wheezing with an air of amusement.

“Time you did some of the work for a change,” she said. And then, without warning, she shoved him, hard. Instinctively, he staggered, desperately trying to keep his balance, but his pyjama bottoms were still round his ankles, and momentum took over as he tripped helplessly over his own feet, sending him flying across the room. He landed sprawled in the lower bunk, travelling at such a speed that he had sunk halfway into the mattress before his boundary sensor could stop him. He lay there groaning, intensely thankful that he couldn’t actually physically impact against solid objects, but feeling pretty whiplashed all the same.

He looked up, dazed, to see Arlene smirking as she sauntered towards him, and he realised he must be cutting a pretty contemptible figure. But after all, as they had amply proved between them, he was a pretty damn contemptible person. And it felt so _right_ , so shamefully right, being pushed around by a girl until he looked every inch the hopeless, ridiculous loser he knew he inwardly was.

“Now then, Arnold,” she commanded, “up on the bunk, and on your knees.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he bleated brokenly, shuffling himself round awkwardly until he was in what he hoped was the desired position: kneeling at the foot of the bunk, facing the pillow. This took quite a lot of concentration, and when he looked up again, he was greatly startled to see that Arlene, who was now sat on the bunk beside him, had unbuckled her belt, unzipped her fly, and pushed her own khaki trousers down to her ankles. She was just in the process of pushing her smartly-creased military-blue briefs down in a businesslike fashion to join them, revealing a neatly-trimmed triangle of wiry brown pubes, with a gingery cast to them that was unnervingly familiar. Rimmer started backwards in shock, and this time his boundary sensor _was_ quick enough to let him jar his head against the ceiling of the bunk.

“Ye-e-es, I often get that response,” Arlene said smugly, quirking an eyebrow. Rimmer had no idea exactly how this was supposed to be a boast, but she had obviously forgotten that there was no point lying to him.

In one swift movement, she pushed him down by the shoulders until he was virtually bent double, then swung her legs up and over him into the bunk. She brought them down one each side of his prostrate form, hooking her still-booted feet in their tangle of bunched-up clothing round behind his knees.

“You can look now,” she crooned, and Rimmer automatically unbent himself a little from his semi-foetal position, soon wishing he hadn’t. He was greeted with the terrifying sight of his own female self stretched out on her back in front of him, propped up against pillow and elbow in a manner she undoubtedly hoped was seductive, with her pale, skinny legs ostentatiously splayed. Two pairs of pink lips seemed to have their predatory intentions towards him written all over them.

Conflicting emotions shot through his head in a blur. Just the _thought_ of having sex with a real live human being again was so overwhelmingly magnificent that he could barely concentrate on anything else (least of all the detail that she was neither live nor human). But it was going to be smegging difficult with his hands behind his back. And, what was worse, the complicated little bit of anatomy that was laid out before him felt at the same time utterly foreign, but naggingly familiar. He barely knew what any of the bits _were_ , and yet, a certain fold of skin, a certain gradation of colouring, a certain aspect of proportioning here and there tugged viscerally at his memory. In a sickeningly unnatural flash, he suddenly felt as though his subconscious knew with certainty the details of how a sexless foetus comes to develop differentiated genitals, without that knowledge ever having passed through his conscious mind. He wasn’t usually one to be fussy about where he put his erection, but he worried he might have to draw the line at a vagina that gave him dizzying existential angst.

He wondered how on Io Arlene was coping with the sensation. Of course – the smegging bitch was still drunk.

“Miss Rimmer, ma’am... I’m most awfully sorry, but I think I’m getting a headache,” was all he managed to falter, before she seized a handful of his curls, and shoved his head between her legs.

Rimmer had never before been thrust face-first into a set of lady bits, but the experience was not shaping up to be one he’d recommend. For a start, there was the smell. It wasn’t very strong, and it wasn’t in itself unpleasant, but it was so akin to his own particular, er... musk... that it induced another brief wave of nausea.

“Mmph,” he said, the rest of him so awkward and unmoving that Arlene yanked his head up again impatiently.

“Come on, Arnold,” she sneered. “Show me there’s a use for that tongue of yours, since so far it’s contributed nothing of intelligence to the proceedings.”

She forced him back down again with what he could have sworn was an audible squelch.That was the _other_ thing: he hadn’t realised lady holograms produced so much, um...

And then suddenly her hand was on his erection, her thumb rubbing against the head, and he realised with embarrassment that he was, well... quite a lot of, um... himself. Just as he was starting to arch into her satisfying touch, she released her grip, and moved to stroking her fingertips along his length so lightly that it was maddening. He gave a muffled cry and jerked violently, trying to get away from the achingly ticklish sensation, but she had his head in a vice-like grip between her thighs, and her crossed ankles were pressed down firmly on his calves. He was helpless.

“I could do this all night,” she murmured with glee. “So: suck on it, baby.” 

Rimmer wriggled futilely, desperate to find some way out of this mess which wouldn’t involve him complying with Arlene’s demand. Excitement had rapidly overtaken nausea, but this in its turn was utterly dwarfed by the cold, sweaty certainty of impending embarrassment. It was a feeling he knew well, and one which always came on just before he tried his hand at a new skill.

But, as a particularly cruel move of Arlene’s set him bucking and yelping in exquisite agony, he realised that however much he humiliated himself with his inexperienced technique, he couldn’t make much more of a fool of himself than he looked now – head down, arms bound, and naked backside stuck up in the air, wiggling uncontrollably.

Hastily, inexpertly, he stuck out his tongue and started to slobber over the area indicated. Either beginner’s luck or the element of surprise appeared to be on his side, as Arlene let out a strangled gasp, abandoning her torture of his stiffie to grab at the bedsheets. The bedsheets, of course, were solid, so she quickly gave that up in favour of embedding the fingers of one hand deeply in his curls, forcing his face and her crotch to get even more intimately acquainted.

Desperate now to keep up the standard he’d somehow managed to set, he sucked and nibbled frantically at whatever bewildering anatomical elements came within his reach. Arlene embarked on a series of mildly terrifying moans, her Ionian accent becoming ever more pronounced as her self-discipline slipped away. Meanwhile, her secretions were getting positively torrential, smearing his cheeks and nose and chin as she pulled and pushed at his hair, her motions out of sync with the slowly-building shuddering of her hips.

“Finally – we’ve found something – you’re not completely – hopeless at,” Arlene panted, between moans. “Oh! Oh smeg yes, there! Harder! Faster! I said _faster!_ ”

Rimmer complied, as best he could, gripped by a frenzied thrill at the thought of what punishments might await if he failed her.

“I should – just keep you – here forever. Oh! Tied up – like my little – fucktoy...”

Rimmer’s cheeks burned. Right now, that was exactly what he was: a great, big, pointless lump of simulated flesh, attached to a poorly calibrated vibrator. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, had no control over anything but his tongue – and with all the thrashing about, he could barely keep control of _that_. And that was how Arlene liked him: her little fucktoy. The only use anyone had ever found for him.

“Ahhhh! Harder! No, no, there! No, you idiot, _there!_ ”

Rimmer aimed blindly at ‘there’, tears pricking his eyes as Arlene’s fingers twisted viciously in his hair, shoving him in a vaguely unrelated direction. Oh, God, he couldn’t even do _this_ right. She probably should have just bought a vibrator, he mused feverishly. For an extra ten dollarpounds, she could probably even have got one which made better conversation than him.

“That’s – _it..._ come – _on..._ you – useless... spineless... brainless... charmless... little piece of – _totty!_ ”

By now, his tongue had somehow become wedged up inside her, and both her hands were in his hair, thrusting him painfully and mercilessly back and forth. He was, he realised, having his face fucked. He hadn’t even known you could _do_ that with a vagina. This was, all in all, pretty much the most emasculating experience of his entire life. How had he been reduced to this?

“Oh... _oh_... _geronima!_ ”

A surge of electrical energy coursed through Arlene’s body, building to a peak in her groin, where it discharged itself with a crackle of static. Rimmer howled and leapt back, his whole face stinging as though it had been slapped. Pain, shock and humiliation reached a crescendo within him, and before he knew what was happening, hologrammatic come was spurting over his pyjama top, spattering across his stomach, and dissipating in pretty blue sparks into the empty air between them.

It was hardly what he’d have recognised as an orgasm. Hardly the brief thrill of release and immediate hollow, shameful comedown he was used to. For one thing, it was rather novel to feel the shame _before_ the orgasm. He rode it out blindly, cresting an overwhelming, transcendent wave of emotional intensity which could have been agony or ecstasy; it didn’t seem to matter which.

As his tremors died down, he stared at Arlene dumbstruck – red-faced, used-up, and utterly undone. Not a trace of remorse showed on her smirking, sated face.

“ _Well!_ ” she exhaled ostentatiously, still rather breathless. “I have to say... that was really... rather splendid.”

“I’m glad you thought so, Miss Rimmer, ma’am,” Rimmer managed to splutter, exhausted.

“Come on now, petal, bend over, bend over,” she fussed in a businesslike tone, kicking gently at his thighs, then pushing his head down when he didn’t catch her drift. She extricated her clothing-festooned ankles from round the backs of his knees, swung her legs back over his head and off the side of the bunk, and lazily bent down to hoist her knickers back up.

Rimmer didn’t bother to try and right himself again; he just let himself gently collapse the rest of the way down onto the bunk, and lay there on his side, staring blankly past Arlene as she carelessly refastened her trousers. He felt comprehensively used; he had been taken advantage of for all he could give, and then cast aside as worthless. He was a mess, his hair tousled, his face slick with smears of his saliva and Arlene’s wetness, splatters of his own come sticking his pyjama top to his stomach. She had, in short, absolutely ruined him. He had never imagined he could feel so deeply, beatifically contented.

“Good night, my little cupcake,” Arlene grinned, ruffling his hair in that irritating manner again, and swinging one leg up onto the bunk ladder. “And good luck explaining _that_ one to your ship’s computer.”

She paused just long enough to watch his eyes open wide, his mouth opening and closing like a bewildered fish, before hoisting herself up onto the top bunk and triumphantly calling “Lights!” Almost as an afterthought, as the room was plunged into darkness, she sleepily called out “Lock!”, and the door finally slid closed.

Rimmer moaned softly as Arlene’s final humiliation washed over him. So he was stuck like this, trussed-up, bedraggled and defenceless, while she snored away in a drunken nasal whine in the bunk above. He couldn’t get _himself_ out of this predicament, and there were only two people who could: Arlene... or Holly.

He knew she would, deep down. He knew that in the morning she’d untie him, let him scrape together at least _some_ semblance of pyjama-clad propriety before calling upon Holly for a clean uniform. He knew, because if he were in _her_ position, he’d be much too cowardly to set people off asking questions about what exactly he had done to his unfortunate alternate. But as he lay there in the dark, hologrammatic juices slowly drying on his cheeks, tugging pessimistically at the tie knotted around his wrists, it didn’t take much effort to pretend otherwise... to imagine Holly’s face when he saw the painfully compromising position he was in... to imagine the rumours that would fly around the crew, the looks the others would give him, the way they would snigger behind his back... to imagine being stripped of his dignity all over again.

Rimmer shifted position slightly, and gave himself happily over to whatever mortifying torments his unhealthily fertile imagination could produce.


End file.
